happening in another room.
“I must go,” he says suddenly. “They will not forgive me for this.”
“I’m glad you helped me.”
“I hope I have cause to be glad of it as well, sir.”
The Vassal gives a small bow and vanishes.
I don’t go to Elza’s house. I don’t know what to do. The Book of Eight sits on the table, and I’m afraid to go anywhere near it. I’m afraid to even try to open it. I keep thinking about the circles flowing out of the pages, the way they covered the walls and the Shepherd’s face. The Book is a monster, and the Host wants me dead. I can’t leave Mum and Ham here without me. The afternoon darkens into evening. The trees that surround the house take on the shape of whispering giants. Ham won’t settle and paces the kitchen all night. I think of waking Mum, telling her we need to leave, but I don’t know how I’d get her to believe me, and I don’t know where we could go that they wouldn’t follow. By one in the morning I can’t keep myself awake any longer. I climb into bed with my clothes on and lie still, listening for any hint of the Host returning. The wind whispers at the cracks in my window frame. Outside, the fields are cold and dark. Animals shiver in their burrows, dreaming bleak dreams of running and dying.
W hen I wake up on Friday morning, I hear a man’s voice coming from Mum’s room. I run in to her and find there’s a crude star drawn in black paint above her headboard: a slashed, spiky rune that takes up half the wall — the same symbol the Shepherd had tattooed on his palms. She’s lying still and straight, bedsheets covering her body up to her neck. Her hair is tucked behind her ears. She looks peaceful. I can’t tell if she’s breathing or not. The voice I could hear was her CD player, a man’s cheerful voice reciting some self-esteem exercise.
“Only you have to power to effect lasting personal change,”
the CD player says to itself.
“Mum!” I yell.
I cross the room in what feels like one step.
“Look at yourself in the mirror. What do you see?”
I shake her by the shoulders. She doesn’t wake. I can’t find her pulse, but her arm feels warm. I hold a hand mirror to her face, and she breathes the faintest film of fog over it. She’s alive, then, whatever they did to her. I sit on the floor beside her bed. I should’ve said something to her, but I don’t know what I could have told her. She believes in the spirit world as an abstract place full of energy and good vibes rather than as a malicious storm of darkness. How would I have explained the Prisoner or the Shepherd to her? I should call an ambulance . . . and then what? They’ll give her a CAT scan? Put her on a drip and wait for her to wake up? I’ll get put in foster care. I can’t think of people who’ll be less responsive to my stories about evil spirits than a gang of paramedics and social workers. I’m on my own. Whatever the Host has done to her, I have to deal with it.
“Do you see someone who’s confident and powerful? Most of us don’t.”
I turn the CD player off so hard that the power button breaks. I leave her room, shut the door, and walk out onto the landing. I feel like the ghosts must be watching me, watching Mum, waiting to see what I’ll do.
“Show yourselves!” I’m shouting. “Come out! What have you done to her? Don’t hide from me! Show yourselves!”
Nothing. What I’ll do if the ghosts do appear I have no clue.
“Don’t make me wait!”
There’s a sharp rapping at the front door. My spine fizzes, like it’s been filled with electrified ice. My throat tightens. Ham starts to yelp in the kitchen.
“Who is that?”
Whatever’s at the front door doesn’t answer. Peering down the stairway into the hall, I can see a dark human shape, silhouetted beyond the door’s pane of rippled glass. I’ve met five of the eight ghosts.
What’s waiting beyond the door?
Did Dad really summon a demon?
There’s another flurry of knocks. I
“I must go,” he says suddenly. “They will not forgive me for this.”
“I’m glad you helped me.”
“I hope I have cause to be glad of it as well, sir.”
The Vassal gives a small bow and vanishes.
I don’t go to Elza’s house. I don’t know what to do. The Book of Eight sits on the table, and I’m afraid to go anywhere near it. I’m afraid to even try to open it. I keep thinking about the circles flowing out of the pages, the way they covered the walls and the Shepherd’s face. The Book is a monster, and the Host wants me dead. I can’t leave Mum and Ham here without me. The afternoon darkens into evening. The trees that surround the house take on the shape of whispering giants. Ham won’t settle and paces the kitchen all night. I think of waking Mum, telling her we need to leave, but I don’t know how I’d get her to believe me, and I don’t know where we could go that they wouldn’t follow. By one in the morning I can’t keep myself awake any longer. I climb into bed with my clothes on and lie still, listening for any hint of the Host returning. The wind whispers at the cracks in my window frame. Outside, the fields are cold and dark. Animals shiver in their burrows, dreaming bleak dreams of running and dying.
W hen I wake up on Friday morning, I hear a man’s voice coming from Mum’s room. I run in to her and find there’s a crude star drawn in black paint above her headboard: a slashed, spiky rune that takes up half the wall — the same symbol the Shepherd had tattooed on his palms. She’s lying still and straight, bedsheets covering her body up to her neck. Her hair is tucked behind her ears. She looks peaceful. I can’t tell if she’s breathing or not. The voice I could hear was her CD player, a man’s cheerful voice reciting some self-esteem exercise.
“Only you have to power to effect lasting personal change,”
the CD player says to itself.
“Mum!” I yell.
I cross the room in what feels like one step.
“Look at yourself in the mirror. What do you see?”
I shake her by the shoulders. She doesn’t wake. I can’t find her pulse, but her arm feels warm. I hold a hand mirror to her face, and she breathes the faintest film of fog over it. She’s alive, then, whatever they did to her. I sit on the floor beside her bed. I should’ve said something to her, but I don’t know what I could have told her. She believes in the spirit world as an abstract place full of energy and good vibes rather than as a malicious storm of darkness. How would I have explained the Prisoner or the Shepherd to her? I should call an ambulance . . . and then what? They’ll give her a CAT scan? Put her on a drip and wait for her to wake up? I’ll get put in foster care. I can’t think of people who’ll be less responsive to my stories about evil spirits than a gang of paramedics and social workers. I’m on my own. Whatever the Host has done to her, I have to deal with it.
“Do you see someone who’s confident and powerful? Most of us don’t.”
I turn the CD player off so hard that the power button breaks. I leave her room, shut the door, and walk out onto the landing. I feel like the ghosts must be watching me, watching Mum, waiting to see what I’ll do.
“Show yourselves!” I’m shouting. “Come out! What have you done to her? Don’t hide from me! Show yourselves!”
Nothing. What I’ll do if the ghosts do appear I have no clue.
“Don’t make me wait!”
There’s a sharp rapping at the front door. My spine fizzes, like it’s been filled with electrified ice. My throat tightens. Ham starts to yelp in the kitchen.
“Who is that?”
Whatever’s at the front door doesn’t answer. Peering down the stairway into the hall, I can see a dark human shape, silhouetted beyond the door’s pane of rippled glass. I’ve met five of the eight ghosts.
What’s waiting beyond the door?
Did Dad really summon a demon?
There’s another flurry of knocks. I
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